


Only a Minute

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Light BDSM, Pre-Tough Love, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe she only has a minute, but Bull always makes it worth her while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only a Minute

She only has a minute.

Never more than that, these days. Small of her back aching from bending over the war table, fingers stained with ink, eyes itching until she wonders how much longer she can keep them open. She almost longs for the day they'll set out for the Western Approach, because then at last she can stop reading and arguing and signing this agreement and that decree.

Only almost, though. Once they're on the road, there will be no more stolen moments like this one.

The shadow of the curtain wall hides them well enough: Bull's hands spanning the curve of her waist, hers framing his face, pulling him down to meet her. She's on tiptoe to make it easier; she's not quite as tall as his broad shoulders. She rests her fingers there for balance, palms to scars, and he pulls until she's tight to his chest and her heart is actively trying to choke her.

He backs her toward the wall, and she goes, all thought of _only a minute_ gone from her head. His body presses hers to the stone; his hands slide lower, curving around her hips, inching beneath her tunic.

There are scouts and passersby and, Maker, _Cassandra_ not two dozen paces from their cozy alcove. She squirms, worry waking where only pleasure had been before, and his hands still against her.

“Something wrong?” he asks, the rumble of his voice quiet. There’s no irritation, no anger at her distraction, just honest inquiry. That does something to ease her anxiety all on its own.

"What if someone sees?" she whispers back.

"No one's going to come charging over to investigate. It's rude." His eyebrow lifts, challenging now. He knows he’s got her, damn him. "Say the word, and we'll stop."

She remembers the syllables, but she doesn't want to use them. She shakes her head.

His expression changes, softens briefly while he considers her, and she tries to fix the sight of it in her memory: the way his head tips a bit to the side, lid lowering over a steel-gray eye, smile tugging on the scar at the corner of his mouth. He leans in again to kiss her, crowding her against the stone, and all thought of remembering dissipates when sensation rushes in to drown her. His stubble scratches her skin; the flick of his tongue meets hers; the ridge of his teeth catches at her lip.

His thumbs are drawing circles on her stomach now, lazy tracings that inch lower with every circuit. She’s enamored with his hands, the uneven and varied terrain of them, and he knows it; he takes his time touching her, callouses and scars moving deliberately over her skin. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, seeking purchase.

She wonders how far he'll go, with the late afternoon sun still shining on Skyhold only a few paces away. She's both thrilled and terrified to find out.

He loosens the laces of her trousers and slips inside; the heel of his hand presses between her thighs, forcing her legs wider. She rocks against him, her soft whimper of pleasure at the contact swallowed up by his mouth, her back arching against the stone.

"Eyes open," he murmurs.

She hadn't realized they were closed. She blinks; the world is mostly obscured by Bull, but around his shoulder she can see a pair of scouts talking. Further than that, Cassandra strikes at a training dummy, her every exhale audible.

If any of them turn to investigate, it will be absolutely clear what's happening, but her arousal doesn't abate; she presses eagerly against his hand. He chuckles, the sound low and rich in her ear, raising goosebumps down her neck.

"You like this," he observes. His fingers dip inside her smalls, the heel of his hand still rubbing slow circles, to stroke into her wetness.

"Yes," she breathes, twisting in his grasp. His hand stills, offering only continual pressure against her throbbing center, not the ebb and flow she needs. His fingers drag through her slick folds, deeper with each pass.

She's burning, dying of want, and even with her eyes wide open she doesn't see a thing, feels only his body bracketing hers and his fingers sliding into her. There's a moan in her chest, in her throat, and before it can emerge his palm is covering her mouth. Wild-eyed, she looks up at him, and his smile turns smug as his whole hand caresses her: the heel grinding, the fingers reaching deeper, and then again, and _again_ —

"I know you only have a minute," he says. She shudders at the heat of his voice against her skin, lips barely brushing her neck when he speaks, the puff of his breath dragging shivers through her flesh. "The least I can do is make it a good one."

He lets the pressure off her clit just as he curls his fingers inside her, and were it not for the hand covering her mouth, the training yard would hear the way she moans when she comes, a crescendoing whine of pleasure dragged from her throat.

While she's slumped back against the wall, trying to catch her breath, he takes the hand from her trousers and licks his fingers clean. If she wasn't already late for the next meeting—she hears the bell now—the sight would be enough to convince her to go again.

He must see it on her face, because he gives her a lazy smile and says, "Don't let them keep you too late."

His hand is warm on the back of her neck when he kisses her goodbye, the taste of her on his tongue. If she manages to do more than daydream for the next few hours, it will be a victory.


End file.
